


one for the road

by phantasme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantasme/pseuds/phantasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles offers Derek a ride, only for the Jeep to break down unexpectedly and leave them stranded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one for the road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mlb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlb/gifts).



> for madeleine xx

“I made it through the wilderness… Somehow I made it through-ooh… Didn’t know how lost I was till I found you-ooh…”

The dashboard clock read five thirty-one, and dusk was just beginning to sketch shadows in the dips of the road and the forest that bordered it. The sharp scent of evergreen had stolen in through the open windows of the Jeep, and curled neatly around the battered seats and the bent rearview mirror – rustled crumpled tardy slips and candy wrappers and tugged at the tears in the upholstery, and left the taste of evening on the driver’s tongue. Stiles tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and raised his voice against the rush of the wind: “I was beat… Incomplete… I’d been had… I was sad and blue-ooh… But you made me feel… Yeah you made-ade me feel… So shiny and new…” He was still some miles outside the town limits, and doubted that he would make it back to Beacon Hills before night fell – but the realization was only slightly perturbing. The moon was a waning crescent, and the monsters that hid in the darkness and waited under beds would keep their distance. The pine-scented air was tinged with the warmth of summer, and the last light of the sun was glittering in the windshield, and he turned up the radio a little louder and happily ignored the faint whine of the engine as he rounded a bend in the road. “Like a virgin, touched for the very first time… Like a virgin, with your heartbeat next to mine…” 

Five forty, and the Jeep blew past a figure walking along the shoulder of the road – five forty-one, and the Jeep backed up, tires squealing and brakes screeching. The pedestrian too came to a halt, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows a fraction as Stiles leaned out the window. “Hey! What are you doing? Why are you walking? I thought you owned a car! Why are you out here? Are you doing something sketchy? Are you doing something sketchier than usual? Seriously, dude, I thought you had a car!” Stiles glared at the man, mingled surprise and suspicion etched across his face; it wasn’t that he _mistrusted_ Derek, exactly, but his presence on the side of the highway was so unexpected that he hardly knew how to react. He knew, on an intellectual level, that Derek’s world was hardly limited to Beacon Hills – but he had never seen him anywhere else. If it had not been for the fact that he would know the set of those shoulders and the slope of that neck _anywhere,_ he would not have believed his eyes, much less bothered to pull over.

Derek looked at Stiles impassively. “I could ask you the same question.”

“Why, does it look like _I’m_ walking? Are cars not a thing in your universe anymore? Are – “ His sarcasm was cut short by a scowl from Derek, and he raised his hands defensively. “Come on, dude, usually you’re more about standing around menacingly in the dark of the night than going for nature walks at sunset, you can’t blame me for being a little weirded out!”

Derek opened his mouth as if to reply – Stiles could practically hear the derisive tone of his thoughts – but closed it again abruptly. After a minute or two of apparent struggle, he said coolly, “I could use a ride.” Stiles waited for him to elaborate further, but the werewolf seemed to feel that no further explanation was necessary.

Mimicking his silence, Stiles said nothing, but leaned over to the passenger side of the car and pushed the door open. Derek met his gaze deliberately, nodding slightly as if in thanks, and slid into the Jeep with unexpected grace. Stiles tightened his grip on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. The minutes ticked by.

“Uh, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Are – are you going to start driving anytime soon?”

Stiles blinked, releasing the breath he’d unconsciously been holding, and hit the gas so hard that he felt the shock of acceleration reverberating in his bones. The forest flew past in a blur of green.

Five fifty-eight.

“Is that – _Madonna_ you’re listening to?”

“Shut up.”

“I just didn’t have you pegged for that kind of – “

“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Stiles dug his fingernails into the fabric covering the steering wheel, heat rising in his face as he registered the amusement in Derek’s voice.

“I mean, it’s okay, I just – “

“I swear to god I will pull this car over and make you walk if you don’t shut up.”

Derek said nothing, and Stiles exhaled sharply, nerves rattling and skin burning. He would have lost his license in a heartbeat if his dad could have seen how far over the speed limit he was driving, but he could hardly move a single one of his muscles; the idea of shifting his foot over to the brake was laughable, an impossibility. Which was perhaps fortunate, as he was not sure which was the less of the two evils – doing all he could to protract this car ride, or getting it over with and getting rid of Derek as quickly as he could – and it was better if an external force decided the question for him.

Six-sixteen.

“... Stiles, I think – “

“Oh my god, what did I _just_ say? It’s not even, like, all Madonna, it’s the greatest hits of the eighties! For fuck’s sake, man, weren’t you _born_ in the eighties? You’re kind of old like that, aren’t you?” He banged the steering wheel with his palm a few times for emphasis, trying to cover up the fact that his voice was pitched just a little higher than usual and that he was still hyperventilating slightly.

“Stiles, be quiet and listen to me! I think something is wrong with your car. Hear that noise?” From the corner of his eye, Stiles could see that Derek was leaning forward in his seat, one ear slightly tilted towards the dashboard and mouth curling down in concern. Stiles twitched slightly. “The rattling sound?”

“Fuck.”

“Something’s wrong with your engine. Pull over.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbled again, veering slightly towards the shoulder of the road, but changing his mind a moment later. “It’s just an old car. It makes weird noises all the time.”

“Stiles, pull over!”

“No! It’s not necessary! There’s nothing wrong with my freaking car!”

“At least let me take a look before you accidentally kill us!”

“No! You don’t even know anything about cars! You don’t even have a car, apparently! You still haven’t even told me why you were walking all Lone freaking Ranger-ish in the middle of freaking nowhere! What if you’ve, like, become some kind of psycho serial killer and you’re trying to trick me so you can drag me out into the middle of the woods and murder me? Because you’re not going to get away with that! I’m the sheriff’s son! I know all about self-defense, you homicidal maniac!”

“Stiles, pull the damn car over!” Derek twisted around in his seat, glaring at Stiles with such fierce intensity that he could practically feel his eyes stabbing at his skin. He responded by stomping the gas even harder and screaming at the top of his lungs, attempting to drown out the truly worrisome racket the engine was making, the sound of Derek shouting at him to pull over, and the throbbing rhythm of the greatest hits of the eighties. To his dismay, however, an unpleasant shriek broke through the din, and the car suddenly lurched to a halt. Stiles felt himself flying forward, and hit the steering wheel with such force that he could feel the blow in every inch of his body. “OH MY GOD, WE’RE IN AN ACCIDENT! WE’RE GOING TO DIE! OH MY GOD, DEREK, THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!” It was a struggle to keep up the volume of his yells with half the breath knocked out of his chest, but somehow he managed – he wasn’t even sure that he’d really been hurt, but he had no idea what had just transpired or where he was or why Derek Hale was even in his car. Or – he glanced to the side, eyes wide and lungs convulsing, and realized that the recipient of his torrent of verbal abuse had disappeared. “… Derek?”

No sooner had the name left his lips than the driver’s side door opened, and Derek was reaching over his body to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Now, I’m not really one to say ‘I told you so,’ but I fucking _told_ you so,” he remarked severely, and seized Stiles under the armpits. “This doesn’t even really count as an accident – your engine just gave out or something, and you were going way too fast. You’re not even hurt. Just noisy and whiny. Like always. Now come on.” With that, he hauled Stiles out of his seat and out of the car. Still mostly kicking and screaming, it took Stiles a few seconds to notice the acrid smell that clung to the air and the plume of smoke twisting out from under the hood of the Jeep. The pulsing beat of the radio had died away, and as he too fell silent, the only sound was of his shoes scraping across the asphalt and the faint shuddering of his broken car.

Derek let go of his arms and pushed him upright as soon as they were off the road and standing in the shadow of the woods that edged it. Stiles turned away with as dignified an air as he could muster. “Was all that really necessary?” he inquired acidly, and tried not to touch the places on his shoulders where it felt as though Derek’s hands had burned through to his skin. Derek said nothing, merely frowned at the wrecked Jeep. Swallowing hard and trying to stop hyperventilating once and for all, Stiles reached for his cell phone.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“… You don’t have service out here, do you?” Derek glanced sidelong at him, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Of course not. _And_ the battery’s almost dead. Fuck, this is like something from a horror movie. I even have a freaking werewolf with me to complete the whole thing, as if the dead car and the phone weren’t enough,” Stiles fumed, resisting the urge to throw his phone into the forest. He settled for pushing random buttons so hard that he thought he might punch through the plastic casing – he sort of hoped he would. “What are we supposed to do _now_?”

“Suck it up.” Derek spun on his heel and started walking parallel to the road, just as he had when Stiles had first come across him. “We’re gonna have to walk back into town.”

Stiles stared at his retreating back, mouth forming a perfect _o_ and phone dangling uselessly from his hand. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.” 

Derek said nothing, only kept walking. Stiles glanced quickly between Derek’s retreating back and his lately-deceased Jeep, momentarily torn – but within the same instant, he was sprinting up the road towards Derek, his pulse ringing in his ears and the last rays of sunlight stinging in his eyes. His shoes were stained a pale brown with dust – he could hear tiny crystals of dirt snapping under his feet as he slowed to a walk. “So, uh, exactly how far is it to town?”

His companion shrugged. Stiles gritted his teeth. “Hey, if we’re going to spend the next six million or whatever miles strolling along side-by-side, could you at least, you know, talk to me? I get that you enjoy being all enigmatic with your, I don’t know, your chiseled physique and your affinity for sprouting huge freaking claws every full moon, but as much as we dislike each other I’m gonna go crazy if you keep up the brooding Lord Byron act.”

Derek’s tone was disinterested, his eyes focused on the road and his profile tilted away from Stiles. “I don’t dislike you, and all I did was shrug. I don’t have time for your temper tantrums, Stiles.”

“Okay, _A_ , you just proved my point – all you did was shrug. Which would be _fine_ if you didn’t make a habit of always avoiding talking to me, and I mean, I know I’m pale and weak and sarcastic and my facial hair is lackluster whether it’s the full moon or not and I am one hundred and ten percent not interested in joining your biker gang of lycanthropes, but come on, dude, don’t freeze me out just because my best friend rejected you! Especially since _B_ , you profess to not dislike me, and you actually _do_ have time to listen to my – whatever. We’re literally stuck in the middle of nowhere!” He was practically spluttering by this point, his face crimson with mingled frustration and embarrassment. He had no idea why he was saying half the things he was, but he could see a muscle jumping in Derek’s jaw and a line forming between his eyebrows and the words kept springing off his lips and bursting open on his tongue. “I’m not saying I want to be friends and sit around braiding each other’s hair and making flower chains –“

“Shut up.”

“- But I don’t know if we’re enemies or frenemies or if you actually do dislike me and you’re just not saying it because you –“

“Stiles, shut _up_!”

“If you want me to shut up, then _make_ me, Derek!” He was stumbling over the gravel scattered along the side of the road; the syllables were stumbling over his lips. “You think you’re so cool and tough and I don’t even know what but I swear to _god_ – “ And before he could finish the sentence, two hands had curled into fists around his t-shirt and were dragging him closer, pulling him up so that the toes of his shoes scraped against the ground and his breath caught in his throat and he could feel another heart pounding against his as Derek’s mouth well and truly shut him up.

When they broke apart, Stiles stood there swaying for a moment, lips still slightly parted and eyes wide with shock. Derek looked nearly as nonplussed, his face suddenly more vulnerable than Stiles had ever seen it – for once easy to read, easy to interpret. And in the instant before Derek’s gaze dropped away from Stiles and his mouth tightened in an expression of cold formality, Stiles saw the impulse that had sparked in the most distant corners of his mind, the feeling that had snapped through his synapses and flashed along his every nerve and finally flared to life at the first touch of their lips. There was a sort of electric current coursing through the space between their bodies, and Stiles’ mouth was practically _singed_ by the heat, and all he could think to say was, “Well.”

Derek’s eyes were fixed somewhere on the ground about four feet to Stiles’ left, his air one of deliberate disdain. He made no reply, instead simply arching his eyebrows, hooking his thumbs into his pockets, and making as though to begin walking again. “Oh, no, you _don’t_ ,” and Stiles had skipped a few feet ahead, cutting off Derek’s path, and launched himself at Derek with such force that the werewolf nearly lost his balance – had he been a normal human being, Stiles imagined that he might actually have succeeded in his goal of toppling them both to the ground. Instead, he attempted to make his attack look natural by clinging to Derek like a spider monkey – legs wrapped around his waist, arms twined around his neck – and kissing him full on the mouth before the other had a chance to question his behavior.

For a moment Derek seemed frozen. His body was stiff beneath Stiles’ limbs; his lips still closed and unmoving in their earlier expression of reserve. Stiles felt panic beginning to well up in his chest – _what if he hadn’t meant the first kiss what if he had just been kidding what if he was making a mistake what if what if what if –_ felt his throat tightening and his grip slackening, and as a desperate attempt at eliciting a response from Derek, he bit down hard on his lower lip. Pulled at it with his teeth, and saw Derek’s pupils widen. He saw the familiar halo of red flame to life and burn the coldness out of his eyes, and bit harder, unafraid of the sharp teeth poorly concealed by the tight line of his mouth or the long fingers that skimmed over his hipbones before reaching up to tear his shirt away in long strips. Derek’s hands were white-hot against his skin; Stiles imagined his back branded with the other’s fingerprints, and dragged his teeth across his jaw line. In his current position he could not quite get to Derek’s throat, and his legs were starting to ache a little from the effort of holding himself against Derek, even when the hands on his back tended downward and pressed hard against his thighs and his ass and – _oh._ His grip slackened abruptly, and, eyes wide and mouth agape, he dropped heavily to the ground. Derek caught him under the arms before he crumbled entirely, and Stiles did not miss the fact that the familiar smirk had settled back onto the werewolf’s face. He could not quite muster up an answering glare.

“Your moves could use a little work, Stiles.” Derek’s voice was infuriatingly calm.

“Your face could use a little work, Derek.” He struggled to squirm free of Derek’s grip, half hoping to regain some of his dignity and half hoping that Derek would stop him. Derek expressed his disregard for Stiles’ honor by pulling him closer and running his tongue over the corner of his jaw, the tip of his ear. “Oh my _god_.”

“Shut up, Stiles.” He felt the words, rather than heard them, muttered against his neck as Derek leaned down to scrape his teeth – his normal, even-ended, human-sized teeth – against his collarbone. His mouth closed around the tip of the bone where it met the hollow of his throat. Stiles found that he had entirely forgotten his witty reply – had he even had one to begin with? – and consoled himself by shoving both hands under Derek’s shirt.

“You could probably chip a diamond with abs this hard. Have you ever tried it?” Derek lifted his head to favor Stiles with an incredulous look.

“I could probably snap your spine with my fist. Want me to try it?” His fingers danced threateningly across Stiles’ vertebrae. Stiles pursed his lips and considered Derek for a moment.

“I always knew you secretly liked me.” He smiled with mock coyness, pinching Derek’s nipple between his thumb and index finger.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“No, fuck _me_.”

Now it was Derek’s turn to pause, startled into silence. Stiles narrowed his eyes and slid his hands down to Derek’s waist, his expression one of supreme haughtiness.

“Well, if you insist,” Derek said at last, one eyebrow arching up with an arrogance to match Stiles’. Stiles needed no further invitation – he slammed his mouth against Derek’s, hooked his fingers around his belt loops, and began walking backwards, slowly, towards the shadowy fringe of forest that bordered the road. The Jeep, the phone, the ordinary world that lay at the end of the highway were forgotten, and all that mattered was the dry crunch of gravel that meant Derek was following his lead, and the magnetic heat of his mouth that meant he would keep following. The sunset bled into his vision and every nerve of his body was ablaze with the crimson heat of Derek’s eyes and hands and lips and the road was just a dead strip of stone and Stiles was alive, he was alive, he was alive, he was alive and he was with Derek – and that was everything, really, that he needed. 

\- - -

He opened his eyes to darkness, and the scent of dry leaves and leather. It took a moment to remember where he was and why, and another to realize that he must have fallen asleep. “Derek,” he said, the syllables drifting easily off his lips and disappearing into the night – not so much a question or a command as a simple acknowledgement of the arm curled around his waist, of the leather jacket that had been draped over his bare chest. He twisted around slightly and saw that the werewolf was awake, head propped up on one elbow as he watched Stiles with careful dark eyes. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yes. Only for an hour or two, though.”

He considered this for a few minutes, gaze wandering away from Derek and coming to rest on the skeletal pattern of tree branches overhead. In between the leaves he could see shards of a star-dotted sky; a slender crescent moon curved in the blackness directly above where he and Derek lay. He could feel Derek’s heartbeat pulsing through his own veins, and shivered slightly. “Am I still asleep?”

“That depends. Do you normally dream about having sex with me?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t you think you should save the personal questions for the second date?”

“Is this a date now?” The amusement in Derek’s tone was a little offensive. Unsure if Derek would be able to see his glare in the darkness, he compensated by poking him in the stomach as hard as he could. He suspected that the jab hurt his finger more than Derek, though, and suppressed a wince as he rolled to the side, out of Derek’s reach. The jacket fell off his shoulders, and the fallen leaves scraped against his bare skin; he prayed that he hadn’t accidentally brushed against poison oak.

“I mean, I don’t normally put out on the first date, but, you know, there are always exceptions,” he said eventually, his voice muffled by the dirt. He rolled over once more and sat up, blinking and pushing a leaf out of his hair. “Dude, what happened to my shirt?”

“Your shirt is long gone. The more relevant question is, what the fuck did you do with my pants?”

Stiles looked critically at Derek’s body, delicately painted in highlights and shadows by the moonlight. “I’ll be brutally honest here, Derek; I think you look better without them. Did you want it to be a date?” He thought he saw Derek roll his eyes as he stood, shaking off the clinging leaves and dirt.

“Yeah, well, when we get back to town – or when the cops find you, whichever happens first – I have a feeling my pants will be necessary, so tell me where they are.” Stiles said nothing, waiting patiently for Derek to answer his question. Derek glanced at him sidelong as he paced in between the trees, searching for his pants, but he was too far away and the forest was too dim for Stiles to make out his precise expression. “Aren’t first dates supposed to be things like, I don’t know, going to the movies or something?”

“I guess.” Stiles flopped back against the leaves, folding his arms across his chest to cut the chill of nighttime. “Hey, Derek.”

“What, Stiles?”

“Want to go to the movies with me?”

“Yeah. So where did you say my pants were again?”

“Is next Friday too soon?”

“Tomorrow would work better for me, actually.”

At length, Stiles said, “I threw your pants kind of behind that log over there. To your left.” There was a faint rustling as Derek moved towards the indicated landmark. The crisp sound of a zipper being done up. Stiles closed his eyes, listening. He could hear Derek’s footsteps drawing closer, and after a few moments opened his eyes to see the other standing a few feet away, fully dressed with his jacket folded over one arm and Stiles’ shoes in his hand. “You really think my dad and everyone are out looking for me?”

“You don’t?” Derek inquired dryly. Stiles sighed loudly.

“Just don’t bail on me tomorrow,” he threatened, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his shoes. With surprising levity, Derek pulled the shoes away, holding them behind his back and out of Stiles’ grasp. “Oh my god, fuck you.” Stiles tried maneuvering behind Derek, but he was too quick; he met Stiles’ scowl with a taunting smile and held the shoes high above his head.

“What time do you want me to be there?”

Stiles jumped and stretched in a fruitless effort to reach his shoes, his bare chest brushing against Derek’s arm. “As soon as school gets out. I’ll meet you there. Give me my fucking shoes.”

“As soon as school gets out? Not in the evening or something?” Derek switched the shoes to his other hand, letting his jacket slide to the ground. Stiles gritted his teeth.

“No. We’re going to spend all afternoon and all night watching every movie that’s showing and throwing popcorn at people we don’t like. And you can watch me beat every single one of those dumb arcade games they have in the lobby, and be impressed by my astonishing skill. Give me my shoes.” He leaned up and kissed Derek on the mouth, still fumbling for the shoes. Derek slowly dropped his arm, and Stiles twined his fingers with Derek’s as he took hold of the laces. “ _Thank_ you,” he said sarcastically, and made to pull away, but Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ hand and kissed him again – for longer this time. Stiles felt the heat rising in his face. “Are you sure we have to go?”

“Unless you want your dad to find you out here like this. I’d be interested to hear you explain _that_ one to him.” Derek released both the shoes and Stiles’ hand, and even in the darkness Stiles could see the reluctance in his eyes. He sighed again, and knelt down to tie his shoelaces. Derek’s jacket was still lying on the ground, and as he straightened he picked it up and tried to hand it to Derek. The werewolf shook his head wordlessly.

“What, you wanna leave it here for the woodland creatures to wear? Get some badass deer up in here? Some punk-rock raccoons?”

“You don’t have a shirt,” Derek pointed out inscrutably.

“Yeah, and?”

“It’s kind of cold out.”

“Yeah, I’d noticed that, Derek.”

“So you should wear the jacket, Stiles.” Derek crossed his arms, and after examining his expression for a moment, Stiles chose not to question his judgment and slipped into the jacket. The lining was glossy and cool against his bare skin; it smelled of smoke and dust and something else that he could not quite put a name to, but could only have described as distinctly _Derek_. The wind sighed amidst the branches and leaves overhead, and before Derek could move away Stiles reached out to reclaim his hand.

“Okay,” he said, and waited for the word to fade into the nighttime before finishing. The silence and the shadows were beginning to creep up on them now, and it seemed to Stiles that a certain kind of sadness was tangled up with their interlaced fingers, a caution that before long they would have to let go. But the weight of Derek’s jacket was reassuring, and his hand was warm and Stiles was not afraid when he at last took the first step away from the moment and parted his lips and allowed the damning words, “Let’s go, time to go,” to slice through the air between them.

“It’s not the end,” Derek said, unexpectedly, and Stiles believed him.

\- - -

 

“You’re so fine… And you’re mine… I’ll be yours, till the end of ti-ime – ”

“Stiles, I swear to God – ”

“- ‘Cause you made me feel… Yeah, you ma-ade me feel… I’ve nothing to hide – ”

“ – If you don’t shut up – ”

“Will you _make_ me shut up?” Stiles inquired coyly, looking sidelong at Derek and smirking. They were walking beside the road again, and the scrape of the gravel and broken glass beneath their feet added a dissonant note to Stiles’ singing. The lights of the town were visible now, flickering faintly in the valley just beyond the narrow strip of woods they had only lately visited. Derek had estimated that it would be another two hours’ walk before they reached the outskirts – longer, if one accounted for the slowness of Stiles’ half-sleeping pace.

Derek ignored the attempt at flirtation. “You never did tell me where the fascination with Madonna came from,” he mused aloud. “Or where you were coming from, for that matter.”

Stiles grinned down at his shoes as he stumbled for what must have been the fiftieth time. “Neither did you.” The words were slurred with exhaustion, and Derek glanced towards him sharply as he straightened, swerved, and stumbled again. Only Derek’s firm grip on his hand prevented him from falling face-first onto the highway. “Are you going to tell me where you were coming from?”

“No, but c’mere.” He released Stiles’ hand, but moved to the side slightly, and before Stiles had time to react, Derek had curled one arm under his knees and the other around his back and pulled him to his chest. Stiles shook his head violently and struggled against Derek’s arms, attempting to regain his footing.

“No, no, no, you can’t _carry_ me! It’s embarrassing and my dad is going to think I’ve, like, gotten shot or something and you’re carrying me because I’m injured and dying and oh, god, he’s probably going to start crying. Or he’ll arrest you. Or he’ll shoot you. Or both. I hope he does,” Stiles hissed, seizing Derek’s shoulders so that he could pull himself up enough to glower at the other. “Because this. Is. Embarrassing. So put me down right fucking now, or so help me God…”

Derek said nothing, merely gazed straight ahead with a hint of a smirk curling his lips. Stiles could not decide whether the burning, tightening sensation in his chest was hatred, affection, or simply the side effect of overwhelming drowsiness – or a mingling of all three. He resolved to embrace the last as the guiding principle of the hour, and lightly grazed Derek’s cheekbone with his fist before sinking into a chaotic, half-dreaming state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Minutes passed, or perhaps hours; the miles disappeared beneath Derek’s feet, and Stiles marveled at the evenness of his pace, the steadiness of his pulse. He spent an eternity listening to his heartbeat and registering every slight shift in its rhythm. He counted every vibration – _one thousand two hundred and three, one thousand two hundred and four_ – and decided that he would have no choice but to eschew clocks in the future, as he could think of no better means of measuring time than by the ceaseless thudding and throbbing of Derek’s heart.   _One thousand two hundred and seven, one thousand two hundred and eight._

The headlights came to Stiles as a burst of dark red, sweeping across the undersides of his eyelids and forcing his hand up to his face. Derek stopped abruptly. “It’s your dad,” he said, and it took a moment for the words to reach Stiles, to break open on the distant shore of his sleeping mind, but Derek was already loosening his hold and lowering his feet to the ground. He kept his hand on Stiles’ back as Stiles staggered forward blindly, catching him by the elbow before he could trip on the rough edge of the road.

“Is he hurt?” His father’s voice. Panicked. A little wary.

“No, dad,” he said wearily, and as he neared the police car, moving behind the harsh glow of the headlights, his vision adjusted enough for him to make out his father’s face. The wide dark eyes, the careworn expression, the lines permanently etched between his brows. “I’m fine. The Jeep broke down and my phone died. No crimes to investigate, just some really crappy luck.”

The sheriff’s eyes were fixed on Derek. “What’s he doing with you?”

Stiles had already prepared for the question. “He was walking back from San Lorenzo – he was getting a part for the air conditioning unit in his loft from their hardware store, they had to ship it in. His car broke down, too, just outside San Lorenzo, so he had to walk, like, all the way back, and I offered him a ride.”

“I would have called a cab or roadside assistance or something, but I forgot my phone at the loft. It’s just been a strange day, all around,” Derek added, his accompanying sigh a little too heavy, Stiles thought, to be entirely believable. His father seemed surprisingly credulous, though – the simple relief of finding his son alive and unharmed and free of unnerving news was, apparently, enough to keep suspicion at bay. “It ended up being a bit too long a walk for Stiles, though, so…”

“So you carried him?” the sheriff said dryly. Derek was still half in shadow, at a distance from the cruiser, but Stiles knew perfectly well that his expression was one of pure, smug amusement. He glared at him as he tugged on the handle of the backseat door, waiting for his father to unlock it.

“Yes, I did.”

“Well.” The sheriff paused, glanced at Stiles, glanced back at Derek. “Get on in, I’ll drop you off at your place before I take Stiles home. Stiles, you don’t want shotgun?”

“I’ll sit in the back with Derek,” he muttered, and tumbled into the backseat the instant his father clicked the door open. Derek slid in with a little more grace, carefully nudging Stiles to the other side of the car and keeping his eyes fixed on the sheriff’s profile. Stilinski watched them both through the rearview mirror.

“Stiles, what happened to your shirt?”

“Mmmfffgh.”

“Didn’t quite catch that, son.”

“War casualty, dad. War casualty.” Stiles unpeeled his face from the window to articulate more clearly. “The hood of the car, like, overheated, and I took it off and put it on my hands so they wouldn’t get burned when I opened it up. Then my shirt caught on fire.”

Stilinski whistled quietly. “What in the hell did you do to that Jeep?”

Stiles merely shrugged. The corners of Derek’s mouth twitched.

The cruiser wound down into the valley, the headlights briefly illuminating thick slices of the night before speeding on into a new darkness. Stiles, with his head pressed against the window, felt every shudder and jolt of the car reverberate through his own skeleton, and missed the steadier, warmer cadence of Derek’s heart. Without looking at the other, he reached across the car and found his hand.

“Demfghh mf bfmghhmm.”

“What?” the sheriff asked patiently. Stiles could feel Derek’s quizzical gaze, sharp against his skin.

He lifted his head a fraction and announced, “Dad, Derek is my boyfriend.”

The car jerked to a stop. “He is?”

“I am?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said easily. “He’s my boyfriend.” He squeezed Derek’s hand and beamed sleepily at both of the others. “I’m going back to sleep now. G’night.”

“… Uh, goodnight,” Stilinski managed after a few moments. Derek said nothing, but at length hesitantly stroked Stiles’s wrist with his thumb. The car began to move once more, and Stiles plucked at his seatbelt until it was loose enough for him to slip across the seat and rest his head on Derek’s shoulder. The werewolf stiffened slightly, and the car lurched awkwardly again – but Derek did not let go of his hand, and Stiles felt him breathing, felt the rise and fall of his chest, felt the curves and bends of the road beneath them.

“I don’t dislike you, by the way,” Derek remarked, quietly enough that only Stiles could hear.

“Knew it.”

The dashboard clock read five thirty-one, and through the window, through the trees fringing the road Stiles could see the sky paling to violet as the moon dipped towards the horizon and the long shadows of nighttime curled and faded to mere wisps. A white electricity was coursing from Derek’s fingertips into his veins, and the current swept through his blood and his brain and called forth the irresistible sense of vitality that had earlier embraced him – he was alive, he was alive, _he was alive_.

And the road ran on, into the darkness, into the dawn, and when he at last closed his eyes it was with dried leaves in his hair and starlight under his skin and a magnetic heart beating in time with another’s and the unspoken promise that, when he woke, he would not be alone.


End file.
